


Where the Sky Was Kept

by ashtopop



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Cole as Compassion, Cupid and Psyche AU, Elfy Elf Stuff and Stuff, Elvhen Pantheon, F/M, Fairytale-esque, inevitably more angst, mythology AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-04
Updated: 2015-06-30
Packaged: 2018-03-05 08:02:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 14,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3112223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashtopop/pseuds/ashtopop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fen'Harel slumbered in Tarasyl'an Te'las until a mortal elf unwittingly completed the rites to enter his inner sanctum. Lavellan was not expecting the elvhen gods to be so close at hand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Blessing

**Author's Note:**

> Translation notes at bottom.

Long after Arlathan fell, there was a clan that was graced with two mages to train along side their Keeper and cursed with a third, one that might tip the scales of fate against them. But the mage was a skilled huntress—a credit to her kin at thirteen—and had come into her magic late, so the Keeper moved the clan further from prying human eyes and resolved to settle her with a new clan come the next arlathvhen.

They camped in Emprise du Lion for some time, where the mayor was civil to the respects paid at the ruins and they hoped to find shelter far from the ever-watchful eyes of the Chantry and its steel-cloaked guardians. The youngest of Keeper Deshanna’s apprentices, the ill-fated mage Inara, excelled beyond the First and Second so greatly that Keeper Deshanna planned to step down—which would resettle balance within the clan—prior to the arlathvhen, rather than give her talents up to another.

That was before Kirkwall. After, everything changed.

The clan was outside Wycome now—too close to a human city for comfort, but trade was sometimes necessary to survive. The Keeper’s First and Second urged Deshanna to abandon the adolescent mage before they drew the wrath and hellfire of the Chantry’s faithful, and the rest of the clan echoed their sentiment. They pleaded that it was a question of survival and, while they loved Inara like any daughter of the People, they were still more terrified of the lingering danger her presence entailed.

Inara, for her part, spent the days in thought. She merely waited for the clan to expel her to leave, her bags packed beside her bedroll. She had expected to be left in the woods when she brought her magic to bear in front of her clansmen on a hunt. It had been foolish, of course, to expose it, but it had been instinctual and gratifying, springing from her fingertips like the fresh buds of spring.

She had known what to fear. Her power was admired and appreciated, but not loved—she could not help but feel the same. The Keeper’s other apprentices already had vallaslin and worthy lovers, but Inara had neither. She was content not having a lover, as those her own age were rather dull or overly interested in discussing their latest kills, but it only proved her status as an outsider. She was still young, she knew, but her impatience to see the world was begetting a growing frustration with it. The Keeper, however, withheld her vallaslin on the hope that her bare face would sway the clan to her side, were it ever necessary.

What happened now, however, was not what she had counted on for so long. The Keeper came to her at the edge of camp and sat down silently in front of her. The intent, solemn look on Deshanna’s face made Inara instinctively look down, as if she were being scolded.

“I am glad the end has come,” Inara said, her eyes still on the forest litter beneath her. But the Keeper raised her fingers to Inara’s cheek and a smile alighted in her eyes, forcing the nearby branches of her vallaslin to crinkle.

“I have come to give you both a gift and a burden, da’len, but you must choose your own path.” From the satchel she always kept at her side, the Keeper pulled out the tools used for placing vallaslin in one’s skin. “I can mark you as one of us, but you must know that you will not be. After the ceremony, you will… no longer be of Clan Lavellan.”

The Keeper grasped Inara’s hands in her own wrinkled ones and Inara looked up, confused. Elves exiled from their clans before receiving their vallaslin were never to receive them—they were no longer Dalish in the eyes of the People, but something closer to flat ears, but- “You would be free to find another clan, da’len. To come to the arlathvhen.”

As Inara’s misery fled, hope filled her. Yes, she could find another clan. Perhaps Sabrae, given that she heard they lost their First before the incident at Kirkwall and their Keeper as well.

“Lathbora viran,” Inara breathed, her hands going to her face. “Of course. I would be honored.” The Keeper nodded, her heart glad. She knew Inara would survive well enough on her own—she was no child abandoned to the woods—but it was important to have a place, even one under the stars in the soft swaying of an aravel.

The Keeper grimaced down at her inks. “I am sorry, da’len, that I do not have a better selection for you. I was not expecting to place vallaslin for another year at least.” She shook each small glass vial, hoping to find one that hadn’t dried up. At last, she found one. “I’m sorry, I know red isn’t a very popular color for girls…”

Inara’s eyes found the small vial that would soon be as much a part of her as her fingers and toes. She found herself profoundly unable to care what color the ink was, so long as it stained her skin and marked her as one of the People so she and they could never, ever forget.

“Now, which design would you like? Andruil, perhaps? Given your aptitude for hunting?” The keeper set about preparing for the vallaslin, abbreviating the pomp and ritual choosing of days to minutes and, later, hours. Outside the two of them, no one would know she hadn’t spent her last few quiet days in religious meditation.

“No, I-“ Inara closed her eyes briefly, exhaling to center herself. She no longer found solace in hunting—not since she’d discovered magic. And in just hours she would find herself without the hunters she’d grown so fond of, like siblings. From now until she found a clan, she would hunt alone. Inspiration struck like a flame to tinder.

“Fen’Harel.”

The Keeper’s eyes widened, her eyebrows lifting and hands stilling in their work. She clucked like a mother hen. “Da’len, surely you know the stories. I-“

The more Inara thought about it, however, the more certainty filled her. It would be a reminder, and a promise. Without a Keeper’s sylvanwood ring to guide her purpose, her reflection in every stream and puddle would remind her of her duty to the people and the outsider status she’d been relegated to. Like Keeper Deshanna said, a gift and a burden.

“Ir abelas, Keeper. I do not wish to seem ungrateful, but I am steadfast in my desire.” The Keeper pursed her lips at Inara, but continued her work in mixing the dye.

“If you are sure. I must warn you, I have only seen the design once. It may not be… an exact replication.”

“Who will know?”

At that, the Keeper fell silent. The sun was beginning to set, and they still had many hours of work to do. The Keeper instructed Inara on cleansing herself, and, after she was done, the next hours were spent in complete silence as the Keeper applied the vallaslin.

Finally, the Keeper pulled her tool away from Inara’s face for the last time.

“It is done,” she said wearily. Inara could feel the blood and ink crusting on her face and her fingers itched to touch it (not to mention how badly her face itched), but she forced herself still. The Keeper left her with a quick promise to be right back, and when she returned Inara was mostly unsurprised to see that the Keeper had brought her things. The Keeper set Inara’s bag and the attached bedroll beside her, then handed her furs from the camp stock.

“You have a long journey in front of you, da’len. Have you decided on your course?” She gently cleaned Inara’s face, who dutifully tried not to wince. She gritted her teeth against the pain and considered where her future would lie.

“I think… I will follow the Minanter until the Imperial Highway. Then perhaps I will head south.” Her thoughts felt sticky, like spider webs were restraining them. She was sure it was the lack of sleep coupled with pain and blood loss, but her plan seemed solid enough. It would be a few months of travel, at least, and would keep her from the south of the Free Marches, where there would most surely be magehunters scouring the land. She noticed that the Keeper had not brought her staff, but instead brought a bow.

Next, Keeper Deshanna shoved salve into Inara’s hands. Salve from her precious stock, worth almost as much as the clan could make from furs in a month. Inara’s eyes widened and she tried to hand it back, but the older elf shook her head. “No, da’len. You will take it.”

Inara paused, then tucked it into her pack, which she settled on her back uneasily. It was more weight than she’d hoisted on a trip before, but it stood to reason as she now carried her entire life with her.

Keeper Deshanna clasped Inara’s fingertips in her hands and tears welled up in Inara’s eyes. Keeper Deshanna Istimaethoriel Lavellan had been like a mother to her for seventeen years.

“Dareth shiral, da’len. Lan’atisha.” The Keeper let go of Inara’s hands and turned, heading back into camp. Inara turned as well, refusing to let the tears slip free by blinking up at the sky like a newborn. One foot in front of the other, she began a long walk of her own, not stopping until she met the first tributaries of the Minanter River.

There she made camp, because twice she had stumbled over roots in her drowsiness. It would be better to sleep during the day and walk at night, anyway. She plopped her bags down by the riverbank and laid out her bedroll, then unstrapped the bow from her back. She took it down to the river (here, really more of a stream) with her, ever cautious.

When she reached the water, her own reflection looked back at her. The marks had unexpectedly sharp angles and edges—they were closer to Mythal’s than Ghilan’nain. They were beautiful. She ran her finger down the line that ran over her lips, wary of splitting the fragile skin further. For now, the red of the markings blended in with the inflammation.

Fen’Harel’s vallaslin—she’d never heard of anyone using his marks before. Without a Keeper, who would protect her from the Dread Wolf? Looking at her reflection, a giggle burst from her throat. It felt like… freedom? She was no longer the undesired third—she was no longer a threat to those she cared about. She had duty, but she had choice in it. Inara grabbed a pebble from the bank beside her, trying to mute her grin as it strained the vallaslin scabs terribly, and cast it into the still water.

“Fen’Harel enansal!”

* * *

 

It took her twenty-one nights to reach the great bridge on the Imperial Highway. There, Inara stopped at the cheapest, shabbiest looking inn. The one with blood and broken glass (and was that a tooth?) on the ground outside seemed like her best bet. She carefully stepped around the litter, wary of cutting her bare feet already pained by constant walking on uneven terrain.

It was dark inside the inn and she pulled her hood lower. She couldn't hide her vallaslin, now finally healed, but her ears were kept well disguised. She kept her head down and hoped she had the gold to cover the cost of a hot meal and a room.

She sat at the bar so she wouldn't have to rely on the good manners of two humans not to spit in her food. The call of a hot bath, even one in the stifling and suffocating enclosed spaces humans inhabited, was not to be ignored—even if it seemed like a great many people at the bar had ignored the call for far too long. She wouldn't sleep at the inn—that would be asking for trouble—but she could rest for the afternoon and begin her journey south come nightfall.

When she sat, the barkeep threw the dirty rag he'd been rubbing one place on the bar with over his shoulder and came over.

The words, "What'll you have?" were out of his mouth before he'd inspected her. When he realized she was an elf the expression on his face soured, but before she could smile her prettiest smile at bat her eyelashes at him or consider the coin she could afford in a bribe, he seemed to think better of his attitude.

She was glad he spoke common—a Fereldan, maybe? The clan hadn't been through Nevarra in some time and she wasn't sure she remembered more than the cardinal directions and slurs for elves.

"I'll have the stew. And a room?" He grunted and she placed her silvers on the bar. She wasn't sure it would be enough to sway him and, sure enough, he looked at the money suspiciously and like it might possibly be carrying the blight. She slid another silver coin to the small pile and he nodded grudgingly, sliding it into his hand. "It'll be out in a few minutes. Yer room's at the top of the stairs, first right." He paused for a second, evaluating her. "Don't forget to lock the door."

Then he turned and headed through a door into, presumably, the kitchen. Inara swung her legs aimlessly at the too-tall stool. Belatedly, she realized she should have asked for a mug of something so as to deter unwelcome company. She needn't have worried, however, because just a few minutes later the barkeep, who seemed to double as the cook, emerged with a steaming bowl of stew and a crust of bread that could have only been a day or two old. Her stomach gurgled at the smell.

She dug in with a grateful smile to the man. She was a fair hunter, but she knew she'd made poor time, so she'd been skipping meals. Time hunting and caring for her vallaslin was time not spent walking. She wasn't on a deadline, of course, but she felt an urge to hurry south. Since taking a ship was out of the question—not just because she didn't have the gold, but fear of someone in close quarters noticing her magic or worse were at the forefront of her mind. She was ever conscious of the fact that the Tevinter Imperium, the center of the slave trade, was not a far distance North.

She wouldn't be a slave, no—but her magic wouldn't save her the indignity of indenturment to a magister. Or whatever that position might entail. Pulling herself out of her thoughts, she realized the people seated near her were giving her furtive looks. Immediately she realized why. She wiped the back of her hand across her mouth, blushing, and set her bowl down. Shems use  _spoons_ , Inara, she chided herself—nevermind the fact that it hardly seemed necessary for stew.

She picked up the spoon and hesitated, her eyes checking the movements of those eating near her, then cautiously took a bite. Her teeth bounced off the wood uncomfortably, but it was not unmanageable. The inn patrons next to her had apparently decided to ignore the break in social order and return to their own meals. She sighed.

When she finished, the barkeep came back around to her. "I'll have hot water ready soon. The bath's down the hall." He lowered his voice, "I'll have the girl knock on your door when she comes by—you'll want to get there first."

She nodded and gave him her thanks, sliding another couple coppers across the bar. He waved them away.

"I'm from Ferelden, I-" he shook his head. "You won't be getting any trouble here."

Of course. The Hero of Ferelden, who'd given her life at the Battle of Denerim to stop the Blight, was an elf. A  _Dalish_ elf—one who'd brought an end to forced enslavement of city elves from the Denerim alienage. She nodded and thanked him again, then headed up the stairs.

By midnight she was far away from the inn, her skin scrubbed clean. She had, in fact, gotten the first bath, and the gray water she saw one of the servants dumping later made her eternally grateful to the Fereldan barkeep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Solas will be called Fen'Harel in this, but is probably more akin to the Solas you're used to than the cocky, rockstar, breaker-of-chains I imagine Fen'Harel was back in the day.
> 
> Translations:
> 
> arlathvhen - meeting of the clans (every 10 years, ignore the fact that my timeline is a little wonky)
> 
> lathbora viran - "the path of lost love," a longing for a thing one can never really know
> 
> Ir abelas - I am sorry
> 
> Han'atisha - find peace (this is my own translation, from "hanal" of hanal'ghilan meaning "pathfinder" given that we know "ghilan" means "path")
> 
> Fen'Harel enansal - Fen'Harel's blessings


	2. Pride's End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did a little shuffling and outlining, so the previous chapter 2 is now combined with the original chapter 1. Also, I changed the title. This chapter 2 is all new (faded for her?) and chapter 3 WILL have Fen'Harel in it. Until then, enjoy!

In the weeks that had passed since she left the inn she had encountered surprisingly few people other than those in the major trade cities along her route. In Montsimmard she heard news of a gathering, a meeting between the Circle mages, Templars and Chantry in hopes of peace. She headed that direction, sure that any news of the gathering would of use to her future clan. She tried to be certain she would _have_ a future clan.

The Conclave, as it was called, was set to be in three months. When she reached Lydes she was only two aware of the fact that Halamshiral was the next major city she would reach—so close, in fact, that the stop in Lydes was an obvious hesitation in the path that had, until then, been surefooted. She could not shake her apprehension at walking, as a lone, Dalish elf, into the place her kind was to have called home.

Instead, she studied the map at the crossroads, her finger tracing her path (really, a ship would have been so much faster). She was now firmly in the heart of the Orlesian Empire, but to the south… the Dales. Emprise du Lion. She tapped the map mark with her fingertip, then turned on her heel and headed to the place that had filled her childhood memories. Beyond that, it would only be right to appease the God whose marks now adorned her face. Her Keeper would be proud.

She flinched as soon as she thought it. Of course, it _was_ the kind of traditional prostration Keeper Deshanna would have expected and approved of in a potential Keeper (even the spare’s spare Keeper), but she wasn’t her Keeper anymore. Some days that felt freeing—some days individual, independent choice felt like it was harder than thinking for the clan, always for the clan. She shook her head of such thoughts and continued into the wilderness, eyes and ears now fully alert.

* * *

 

Emprise du Lion was beautiful in spring. Pockets of wildflowers tumbled down steep cliffs and downy grasses padded her every footstep, softly shushing her like a mother rocking a newborn. The river ran quickly with the snowmelt and fishermen were bringing in big hauls. The humans nodded politely to her as she passed silently.

The area seemed untouched by the tension she’d felt in every other human city; she wondered what they’d think if they knew they were under the protection (or at least the very watchful eyes of) the elven trickster god.

They were used to the Dread Wolf’s pilgrims, at least, and those Dalish just passing through.

Her steps grew quicker, excited as she reached the ruins. She felt buoyant? Excited? Had she really been so long without the People that stones and a wolf statue were all it took to make her giddy? The wolf statue was beautiful, however. It didn’t look like the crude mabari-esque statue the clan carried with them; it looked like... an Emerald Knight’s wolf—cunning and brave. Without thinking, she reached her hand out to touch it, but recoiled when she realized what she was doing.

It would not do to offend the Dread Wolf.

She hadn’t thought of bringing flowers until she’d made it past the keep, so she hoped felandaris cuttings would be an acceptable alternative. While technically a weed, it was both rare and valuable in a way that wildflowers weren’t. Of course, it was more populous in Emprise du Lion than anywhere she’d ever seen before. She placed the thorny shoots in the vases left for such things, and then sat down in front of the wolf, her legs crossed.

It was… peaceful. Such silence and inactivity usually left too much room for thought—something she had been avoiding. Before she knew it, her eyes were sliding closed and a soft, mild wind tickled her nose with the scent of flowers. She felt as if, one by one, her meditation was removing worries from the pack she still wore on her back. Finally, in the gentle daylight filtering into the ruined temple, she slept.

She awoke to gleeful shouts. “You’re here! You’re here! Can you feel it? The flowers are waking up! They’re shaking out their petals! And the trees, they’re stretching their branches. You woke them up! _You_ woke us up!”

Inara peeled her cheek off the cobblestone under it, rubbing her head. She peeked up that the overly excited blonde man before closing her eyes and settling her head back in the crook of her arm.

“No, you have to get up. You have to bathe and dress and, besides, there is a small blade of grass under you that would very much like to see the sunlight.”

Inara rolled, then used her motion forward to stand up. “Look, I’ll leave. I didn’t mean to fall asleep, I just-“ Her eyes adjusted to the sunlight enough that she could take in her surroundings and her sentence faltered. “I just-“

She turned in a full circle, taking in the splendor around her. It was a castle, she knew, but she’d never heard of one like this. Crystal seemed to grow from the trees in the garden into the walls themselves, where it curled and twisted in elegant, beautiful filigree patterns reminiscent of the leaves that should have grown in their place. Pillars of gold and intricate precious metal mosaics arched around the enclosure, thrown into dazzling light by the sun setting.

“You’ll feel better after a bath. You love baths,” the boy said. He grabbed her hand, as if unsure she would follow if he turned without her. Her mouth hung open in awe as she took in her surroundings. She felt dazed. She felt so breathtakingly, overwhelmingly _pleased_ by how beautiful it all was, but also indescribably sad. The boy had said they had all been sleeping? She turned her eyes on him and, for the first time, realized she had perhaps misjudged him. She was in the Fade, she had to be. Which made the boy a spirit.

He appeared to be a blonde boy under the big, floppy hat he wore, but his edges were cloudy. He appeared to notice her stare, because the edges cleared and solidified. “I am sorry. I wanted to take a shape that would be familiar and comforting to you.”

Inara’s eyebrows bunched. “What do you mean? I don’t know anyone who looks like you.”

The spirit shrugged. “Perhaps you will. I have trouble keeping track of the wills and dos and dids. Not so much trouble with the Howes, though. Time is much more fluid here.” He stopped in front of a large stone bath and let go of her hand. Now free, a wave of his hand filled the bath to the brim with hot water. It looked incredibly tempting, but Inara was used to temptation in the Fade.

The boy could sense her hesitation. “I am not a demon,” he said, turning back to her. “I am a facet of Compassion and a servant in this place.” She could not name the reason, but she believed him. At any rate, he hadn’t yet asked for her firstborn or all lands south of the Minanter _yet_ , so she decided he was probably okay to trust for now.

She hoped. Inara took her clothes off quickly, and then dipped a toe into the water. It was perfect—exactly at the temperature she liked it. She wasted no time submerging the rest of her body in the heavenly tub. Water should have spilled to the floor as she got in, but it didn’t. Instead, the water stayed perfectly even with the edge even as she drew my arm in and out of the water. Fascinating. Why hadn’t she ever thought of Fade bathtubs before?

As she played, Compassion turned to leave. “Wait!” She called. He turned again. “You said ‘in this place.’ What place? Where are we?”

Compassion smiled eerily, his lips stretching over his gums too widely and too tightly. “Welcome to Tarasyl’an Tel’as.”

Her mind scrambled to translate and he made to leave again. “Wait, no! Stop! _Tarsyl’an Tel’as_ ,” she repeated, “The place- in the sky?”

Compassion shook his head. “No, no, da’len, you must _study_ ,” he said, mimicking the words her Keeper had often told her. “The Place Where the Sky is Kept. It is where Fen’Harel slept, but now he is awake! We are all awake!”

The bath water seemed to turn to ice around her.


	3. Nock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To anyone hoping to avoid sexual!Solas: this chapter marks the beginning of suggestive content in this work, with more (possibly quite a bit more) to come. Viewer discretion is advised.

She pulled herself out of the bath, the water dragging on her as she stood. In a daze, she dried herself.

“Keeping, kept? No Keeper. A sacrifice? Spilled no blood—impossible. Is it? Creators take me. Took me?” Compassion gave voice to her thoughts, patting clothes set out for her and she ran her own hands over it. There was no stitch work—no marks of craft. She itched to examine it further, but Compassion seemed impatient.

“You are hungry,” he said, simply. Truly, her hunger seemed the last of her worries. The Dread Wolf… of course she knew the stories, but they were just that—stories. Allegory and fable mixed in equal parts, meant to scare children and rulebreakers into line. In clans, not working together or falling into petty dissent could mean the loss of even more elven blood, even more elven magic. Religion was supposed to be traditions that maintained an identity for the Dalish separate from the shems, and the bond that kept them together.

She found herself trying to recall stories of Fen’Harel, but, in truth, elven lore (could she call it lore if it was actually _real_?) was disappointingly light on the topic of the Great Betrayal and the betrayer himself. He hadn’t cared for the People, it was said. That didn’t bode well for her, but worse was the price his favors always came with. What would his price be, she wondered, for an intrusion into his home?

Compassion refused to say anymore of his Master beyond sentences strung together with a half-hearted, dreamy logic or echoing her own fears—steadily rising into her throat with passing time. As it grew closer to sunset, her surety that he would come in the night grew. He was the Bringer of Nightmares, after all. That he would stalk her when the moon rose would fit the tales.

Sunset came without remark, however. Her candle burned down and she stared into the dark night at the top of the wall. The air grew chilly and she used just a spark of her magic to warm it around her. Magic seemed to work differently inside the castle walls—innate and through clarity of will, rather than purpose. Midnight came and passed as she continued to ponder it. Perhaps the veil was very thin?

Compassion brought her fine pelts to warm her and soon not even her terror and turning mind were enough to fight the allure of sleep.

* * *

 

The castle was nearly true to life in the fade. She was sitting on a low couch in the rotunda, admiring the mural on the walls. The stained glass far above must have been enchanted, because where the light hit the mural seemed alive. Halla seemed to strain from their lines to run across unpainted fields and the trees seemed to lean with the wind she could feel on her face. In a blink, however, the illusion disappeared.

An elven man sat at the desk in the middle of the room and she bit back a twinge of uneasiness at his presence. Why she would feel that way, she couldn’t remember. Other than the usual temptations offered by demons (wealth beyond imagining, power beyond reckoning, etc. etc.), the fade was neutral—unaligned in the morality that shaded the real world.

She approached the desk and the man glanced up, but finished the note he was writing before giving her his full attention. When he did, she inspected him. She felt no rush, knowing the time in her sleep would pass just the same. He was bald, but dark eyebrows slanted over slate eyes. His nose was proud and his chin dimpled. He didn’t have vallaslin. It was the first she could recall dreaming of a city elf.

He laughed, but she wasn’t sure why. She wanted him to do it again, but wasn’t sure what she’d done to produce it the first time. Her certainty that he wasn’t real, that he was just another produced figment of her imagination inside the fade, saw her plopping down on the table, right on top of his surely meticulous research. She grinned at his obvious displeasure, obnoxiously settling herself into the papers.

“So, hahren. Why are you here? Time to impart some subconscious advice from my Keeper?”

His eyes flashed and he leaned back in the chair, balancing it away from the desk. He crossed his arms and swept his eyes over her face, searching for something. Intense. When he finally met her eyes she looked away first, her own seeking the stained glass far above them. She couldn’t make out the design.

“What advice do you expect, da’len?” he said, his tongue rolling around the words like they were unfamiliar, but tasty. When her eyes met his again they slid quickly away, a blush settling on her cheeks. His voice felt like it radiated through her bones—like it was the exact pitch to set her blood aflame. She was no maiden astride a lily-white halla, but she hadn’t expected… she hadn’t expected it to be one of _those_ dreams.

“You know,” She shrugged, trying again to make out the stained glass design set into the rotunda’s roof. “Keep your head down. Don’t talk to strangers. That kind of thing.”

“And yet here you are, flagrantly disregarding her advice.” Her mouth twisted and her eyes found the design again. A mountain, she thought, but there wasn’t enough color for a landscape.

The man stood, evidently growing impatient with her silence. The stained glass was darker than most—its primary color black, or perhaps dark blue. His hands were on the desk beside both her thighs and he leaned in, his nose dangerously close to her neck as she stared up at the glass. Her eyes weren’t focused on it though, dazed as she was from the sudden heat of him pressing up against her. He was taller than most elves, she belatedly noticed. Broader, too. That thought led to all kinds of interesting speculations she tried to hush before they got the chance to manifest in the world around her.

She kept her eyes steadily on the stained glass. She thought maybe the image was getting clearer, because now she could pick out ruby-colored accents in the dark glass. She tried to keep her breathing steady, too, but that skill evaded her. He inhaled, breathing her in, and she nearly gasped.

“Perhaps you should have taken her advice, da’len,” he said, his lips moving scant breaths away from her neck.

A wolf. Howling at the moon. An ice cold finger of fear ran down her back. She stood, slipping from his arms and knocking his books to the floor in her rush. They scattered across the stones, his inkwell bouncing along and leaving a sticky black trail behind it like corruption. She backed away until her back hit the wall, her hands up in front of her.

“ _Dread Wolf_ ,” she hissed. She wasn’t sure if the look of irritation he shot her was because she had thoroughly wrecked his desk or because she’d used his name. With a wave of his hand he righted the mess she’d made.

“Does this form not please you?” he asked, his voice light. She was wary of his shifting moods. He had let her escape being pinned, she knew. Would he let her escape a second time? She scraped her teeth together, trying to work out a plan. Tricking the trickster would be… difficult, to say the least. She doubted force would gain much ground, either. Diplomacy it was, then.

She tilted her head to the ground, attempting reverence, not meeting his eyes. In long, lithe strides he crossed the room and tilted her head back up, his hand under her chin. He silently dared her to fight and she did not, could not, disappoint. She yanked her chin away from him, eyes sparking in rebellion.

“You know not what you have done, _da’len_. Do you know how long it has been since one of you called down a god?” he asked, his voice rising even as he stepped away to give her much desired space. “By what right do you disturb me when I spend my days searching for a way to fix your people’s mistakes?”

She shook, the power of his voice beginning to be overwhelming. It was clear now, how hadn’t it been clear before? This was his sanctuary, the seat of his power. Still, she clenched her fists at her side. Screw diplomacy. If she was going down, she was going down with a fight.

“What _right_? We needed your help—every god’s help—but when we called, they were gone. You took them from us!” Fen’Harel scowled at her accusation, turning on his heel and beginning to pace the rotunda.

“You fling bedtime stories at me as if Dalish fairy stories are any accurate portrayal of history.”

“You fling insults at my heritage as if they adequately defend your actions,” she said. He stopped pacing, eyes narrowing on her.

“You dare-“ it was nearly a growl.

"I _dare_.” She stepped toward him. There were few steps between them, but Lavellan stopped short of closing the gap entirely. When she looked up at him, his eyes were not on hers, but firmly trained on her mouth. She licked her lips nervously, feeling a titter rise in the back of her throat. That she would be attracted to the Dread Wolf… well, it was just her luck.

“Perhaps you are right. That the Dalish have produced one such as you does them credit.” He tilted his head at her. “Perhaps the elven spirit has yet to be dominated, after all.” The flush from their fight and the tears in her eyes, fed by flaming anger, dampened at his change in tone. She rolled her shoulders back and crossed her arms—the last, at least, she knew how to respond to.

“Never again shall we submit,” she said, reciting the words of the Dalish oath. Fen’Harel’s eyes snapped to her, evaluating.

“We shall see.”

In a green flash she was back in her bedroll, forcibly removed from the fade.


	4. The Words Unsaid

Nearly every night after that, Lavellan found herself in the same part of the fade. Exploration yielded nothing, and doors that should have led outside all led back to each other. It was a mirrored prison, and bouncing off the walls was only making her frustration more palpable.

Each night Fen’Harel observed her attempts with equal parts irritation and amusement. Occasionally he would question her on the world outside their dreams, but he seemed largely unable to actually interact with it outside Lavellan herself. When she asked him why, he responded with avoidance. Her first ejection from the fade had left her mana (and pride) bruised, and she had no desire for a repeat performance so she didn’t press the issue.

She couldn’t remember at what point she’d stopped being afraid of him, only that it had been a sudden realization, like the feeling that you’re falling in even though you’re tucked into your bedroll.

It was not a metaphor she wished to linger on.

He was decidedly less impressed about her newfound indifference to his godhood than she was—a fact underlined by he scowl he leveled at her when her newest crumpled piece of parchment rolled to a stop in front of his books.

He tapped two fingers on the desk and the parchment shriveled to ash as if it were inside an invisible flame. She huffed, but refrained from throwing another offensive sketch his way. She stretched out on the low couch, blowing her hair away from her face.

The attraction had not faded so much as the fear, and Inara found herself studying him more than she’d ever studied the Keeper’s texts. He had not approached her since the first night, nor let her get too close to him. It was almost definitely for the best, but some rebellious part of her whispered that she wouldn’t mind if he did find his way to her again.

His gaze landed on her and, for a moment, he found himself considering her youth. He had resided in the peaceful long sleep for years—too many years, if his research was correct. Much had gone wrong for the People while he slept. Eyeing her, however, he had to wonder if he had misjudged them.

Her patent curiosity and rebellion could have been individual traits, but weren’t those always shaped by environment? If the Dalish had made her what she was, how could he hate what they were? Whether they had shaped her or not, their twisted cultural holdovers had informed her perspective. Never mind the fact that she was no longer afraid of him, she _had_ been.

She had been terrified, yet planted and defiant like the trees they used to plant for the Emerald Knights. He was surprised to find he admired her spirit. But, nevertheless, he could not allow her to discover his intentions. Surely she would find fault in his desire to bring the elvhen gods back—a reappearance that would almost inevitably spell the end of all she knew.

Despite her near constant presence at his side, she had not puzzled out his intentions yet. In one way, he supposed, he should be thankful that the modern elves had forgotten so much. The language he read and wrote in was far too archaic for even a Keeper’s apprentice to understand, though he’d had to switch to more obscure homophones when Lavellan noticed “ _revas_ ” underlined in the margin of one of the texts.

Her pride in understanding was cast in shadow by his worry that she would understand _too much_. Her mortal opinion should have had little importance to him, yet— he shook his head of that line of thought, scratching a few more characters on the parchment before him. Growing to care for her was a mistake, but he had made many of those. So many, in fact, that he did not dare tally the death toll of his younger arrogance—that surety that had gotten so many killed.

He did not want her death on his conscience, he told himself. If other thoughts crept to the surface, well… the Dread Wolf lies. Even to himself. Instead, he embraced contempt.

“I have never asked—why do you wear the markings of a slave?” he questioned, his script never slowing. Lavellan looked up from her perch above him.

“A slave?” she asked, curious rather than condemning. From his research slavery was technically outlawed in every modern country except the Tevinter Emporium that had sprung from the ashes of the Elvhen Empire. Perhaps he was mistaken, but if he wasn’t?

Lavellan jumped down, rolling to the balls of her feet. He spared more than a glance up at her.

“Yes. Your _vallaslin_. Given to slaves to mark their master’s devotion to a certain god?” His lips twisted wryly down at his page. “Such that they are now, I suppose.”

She was silent. He set his work down and finally looked at her, but her eyes were full and cast away from his. Her hand rested on her cheek as if he had slapped her, her fingertips outlining where the ink of her vallaslin stained her skin.

“I… am sorry. I did not mean to offend-“

He rose, moving on instinct to comfort her, but she pulled her hand away.

“No. No. You are right, of course you are right. We have… forgotten much.” She faced away from him, but he did not chase. It had been many years since the vallaslin were used for such a purpose, but he found he did not care about their current cultural significance. Lavellan was a marvel of any age. To unintentionally call him from sustainable uthenera? To traverse the fade with such clarity, without the abilities of a dreamer?

She was no slave.

She startled when he appeared next to her, the tears that had been on the brim of her lashes spilled over at the fright. She wiped them away with her palms in quiet annoyance—weakness. She knew it was foolish to show it in front of the Dread Wolf.

Her vallaslin was more than the ink in her skin and shapes on her face, however. It was her last remaining connection to the fade. And, despite the fact, that she’d properly entered adulthood, she still longed for the relative safety of the clan who hadn’t loved her back.

His hand pulled her face to him more gently than either of them seemed to expect. Again he startled her, but this time she leaned into the fright and his hand all at once. It was an emotional gesture, and one the Dalish apparently hadn’t misinterpreted the meaning of. It signified shared grief, the fingertips ending just before her ears and his thumb, calloused from his writing or perhaps other work, rested on her cheekbone.

He gave a grim sort of smile and pulled his hand away quickly. He held himself carefully away, but gestured with his dimpled chin.

“It is incorrect.”

She put her hand to her forehead; somewhat surprised he hadn’t let the matter drop. Her initial reaction had been… horror. But perhaps their culture reclaimed the marks—freed slaves were not forever bound to their former masters. It would take further thought.

He seemed to have guessed her reaction and shook his head.

“Not that you have them—no one could mistake you for a slave. Your vallaslin, it is meant to be mine, yes?”

Guardedly, Inara raised her eyes. Just what was he getting at? And how to respond? She could not very well say she’d found a kinship in his worship that she couldn’t ignore when she had to choose.

Finally, she jutted out her chin in defiance.

“Yes.”

“An uncommon choice.” He said nothing further, but his uplifted eyebrow begged for an explanation.

She waved her hands in vague discomfort, meaning to affect a casual air.

“Well, obviously that was before I met you.”

He chuckled in mirthful, edged delight.

He ran his thumb over the v on her chin, tracing the line. His eyes were on hers, so she closed them, tilting her head back instinctually to provide better access. This time it didn’t occur to her that it was dangerous to expose her neck to a wolf. This time she thought maybe those callouses weren’t from writing, but from archery—or perhaps staff work. When his fingers trailed over the lines over her lips she thought nothing at all.

He merely wondered when the slow arrow had struck him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm not entirely happy with this, but I thought I definitely owed you guys an update! I feel like in this universe the power dynamic has kind of shifted in this AU, so Solas/Fen'Harel would make the first move. The honeymoon phase ends now. Major plot stuff ahead!


	5. Touch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Inara's Keeper would be really, incredibly disappointed in her for touching things she shouldn't touch (twice).

His fingers continued their exploration, now over Inara’s cheekbones and up to her forehead. His lips twisted in mixed amusement and something he’d rather not put a name to.

“It is inverted there. An imperfect vallaslin and an imperfect shackle,” he said, finally pulling away. He turned away slightly, purposefully distancing himself from her, but it was too late for both of them. She stepped closer, pulling his chin to her in a swift motion and pressing her lips to his. For a heartbeat he faltered, but then kissed back in earnest, surprised admiration.

When she pulled away, the gravity of what she’d done was not lost to her. She turned away, starting an apology—kissing a _god_? Fenedhis, what was she thinking—but he didn’t allow her the breath. His hand gripped her wrist and his body followed, arching her against the rotunda wall. His knee slipped between her own, pressing against her and in the gasp she let out he sought advantage, instantly pressing his tongue, body and mind against her own. He pressed against her and she pushed back, a writhing

He pulled away too soon, his hands lingering on her waist. She kept her eyes closed, head against the wall—reveling in the moment as long as she could. When she opened them, though, he was there again for one more kiss, this one shorter and more bittersweet than the previous.

She let out a harsh breath and his eyes shuttered immediately, pulling his hands away as if she were a trap about to snap closed.

“We shouldn’t. Especially not here.” She nodded absently, this time turning away herself, her fingers running over the lips where his had just been. No, they shouldn’t, but Dread Wolf take her if she didn’t want to again. With an anxious laugh, she pressed her hand to her forehead, wondering if the Dread Wolf almost _had_.

A loud sound shook the rotunda, dust falling before her, but he continued pacing as if nothing had happened. She looked around, confused.

“Did you hear that?” she asked, her eyes on the walls. The frescos seemed to be fading—fading in the way they wouldn’t for thousands of years. “Why? What is going on?”

His pointed avoidance halted in an instant as he turned to her. His eyes searched her wide, terrified ones. The stained glass was cracking above them, the floorboards on the floors above them rattling. Dust and grit rained on her, but he appeared to be untouched by the turmoil around them.

“A spirit is trying to wake you. Perhaps it is for the best,” he said. His hands gripped her shoulders. “ _Wake up_.”

The moment fractured before her eyes and darkness crept in at the edges. Finally, she felt some vague recognition. Though she’d spent more time in dreams than awake in the last days she had been awake long enough to recognize the room she’d been granted for the duration of her stay. _His_ room, probably.

Compassion, though he told her to call him Cole now, leaned over her, so close his shaggy blond hair curtained her face. It was a bit disconcerting. His milky eyes were big, focusing on something past her.

“They’re coming. They want _out_.”

“What? Cole? What’s going on?” He had already pulled away, his arms coming around himself as he backed away.

“They are so _old_.” His eyes were wide, frightened, when they met hers. “And cold. Mirrors mirroring mirrors—veils veiled, veiling?”

She sat up, swinging her feet off the edge of the bed. She moved toward Cole, her hands coming up to his shoulders. He stilled the moment she touched him, his eyes finally focusing on her.

“He’s coming.” His lips shaped the words, but the instant they were out he disappeared from beneath her hands.

“Cole? Cole!” she called, but he was gone. Instead her attention focused on the large mirror she’d always ignored. Like everything else, it seemed like it had once been the height of opulence, but age had rendered it useless. The reflective surface was wavery and dim, like looking at your reflection through a rippling pond. Sometimes you couldn’t even make out a reflection, only shadowy shapes. Now her attention was fully dedicated to it.

The surface solidified and shook, a glow creeping from the middle like an arthritic hand slowly forcing itself open. She stumbled back, her heel catching on a rug and sending her tumbling. From the stone floor she watched the Dread Wolf emerge fully from his slumber, a dreamer now woken.

He scanned the room briefly, his robes shushing around him. He wore simple garments in the fade—probably what he was most comfortable in—but here… Here his robes were of rich fabric inlaid with stones that burned bright with stored magic and gold thread spun at a hair’s width. A fine fur sat over his shoulder and she itched to run her hands through the fur.

He stepped toward her, but seemed to think better of it. In his hands was an orb, a labyrinth of lines covering it. His thumbs ran down the grooves as he looked at her, and then he turned his eyes away.

“I must,” he said, going to the window. His plans, his studying, even borrowing mana from Inara while she slept, were all moves he had made in search of this final play. He would right his mistakes. He could not falter.

“Ir abelas.”

He whispered in elvhen, low enough that she couldn’t hear. The deepest parts of the orb began to glow a bright green, like something was desperately trying to break out from within it.  He whispered again, this time harsher, more demanding. The orb was fighting him, and he wasn’t at full strength. He pushed again, shoving his power into the orb to focus it.

To Inara, it felt like all of the air had been sucked out of the room. Her lungs felt compressed in her chest and her heart was lodged in her throat. A moment felt like an hour—might have been an hour in Fen’Harel’s extreme focus—but when it was over it looked like a greasy film had been lifted from the world.

Inara looked around in surprise, then up at Fen’Harel. He swayed in place, orb falling to the ground and rolling toward her.

“Are you-“

“ _Run_ ,” he said, his eyes rolling back before crumpling to the ground. She was off her place on the rug in an instant. By the time she made it to him, the mirror was glowing again. She glanced at it with worry. What else could be coming out of that mirror?

She threw him over her shoulder as best she could as the glow spread, then reached her hand out to feel for the orb, which had rolled partially under the bed. She had a feeling, however, that it was incredibly important that she not leave it behind. As the portal inside the mirror opened, a shockwave knocked her over. Fen’Harel slipped from her shoulder and the orb rolled further away.

She reached for it, fingers straining and her eyes on the mirror. Someone stepped through when her palm touched the orb, but she didn't see who. Instead, the world burned green and she screamed, her voice cracking with pain as the orb’s magic shot through her hand.


	6. Ar lasa tel'revas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Andruil isn't a nice goddess and Cole continues to make veiled references to how much Inara wants to bang the Dread Wolf

Fen’Harel slumped beside her as she cradled her hand to her chest. Inara twisted her neck to look at the woman who came through the mirror, but she was already at Fen’Harel’s side, a spear to his throat.

The grimace on her face showed how dearly she wanted to push it through, but she seemed to change her mind when she looked at Inara, who was struggling to stand.

In her regard, Inara again fell to her knees, unable to resist the compulsion. The goddess was a predator: her eyes shining in the moonlight. Her skin was dark and as she moved it seemed to shimmer and shift, as if it was fur. Inara’s palms touched the gritty floor before her in forced supplication, the tender skin where she touched the orb aching with the effort.

 _Andruil_.

In an instant she realized how Fen’Harel had been restraining his power. Like Andruil, he could have had her on her knees in an instant with the force and depth of his mana. But he had not.

Andruil put one finger under Inara’s chin and lifted, examining her. "It is a pity you are marked as one of _his_ ," she sneered, then yanked her hand away. Then, thoughtful, the goddess brought her hand back, now in a tender touch to her cheek she couldn't help but lean into, though her mind screamed against it. It felt like her Keeper’s hands—like her mother’s hands. A false sense of comfort enveloped her, like the prey that believes its stalker gone.

She gripped Inara’s wrist, pulling it closer for inspection.

"However, yourmarksdo not bind you to him," she said, her voice taking on an edge of amusement, a smirk on her lips. She looked at the slender wrist she had clenched in her hand and smirked. “Well, perhaps this one does.”

Her accent felt like silk against Inara’s skin, but she wanted to cringe against it. Her own hand, now marked by Fen’Harel’s orb, pulsed in time with her heartbeat, and that helped her focus.

“I cannot kill him. At least not until we convene a Great Hunt.” Her lips pursed in annoyance. “But I will take you. I will need slaves and you are of no use to him anyway.” This time her razor-like eyes focused on Inara, her gaze down the length of her body with an observant, calculating gaze that sent a shiver down Inara’s spine.

“Hmm, it seems he did have _some_ use for you.” She laughed, amusing herself as she looked around the grand room as if she were a queen observing her holdings.

She reached for the orb as Inara had, but applied magic to her effort. The orb wobbled to a hover a few inches above the ground before dropping again, rolling away across the stone floor. Andruil snarled, her fingers curling inward and mouth twisting in distaste.

She kicked the orb under Inara’s bed with a swift motion and, grabbing Inara’s upper arm, dragged her through the mirror. Once through, she turned on her again, her fingers making a swirling motion around Inara’s wrists, both clasped in her hand and a gesture outward. A chain, Inara realized belatedly, stumbling when Andruil took a pace forward and, in so doing, yanked on Inara’s wrists.

Whatever Andruil’s plans, she did not feel it necessary to voice them to a slave— _a slave_ —as they walked. She seemed to know where she was going, but Inara stumbled along after her, two steps of her own matching one of the goddess’.

What had they been worshipping for so many years? Inara suddenly felt a rush of gratitude at the fortune that had her picking Fen’Harel’s vallaslin so many weeks ago.

When they finally reached what Inara imagined was Andruil’s home in the fade, Andruil let her drop to the stones. The palace was beautiful—fragrant and blooming with the fade’s light shining through gaps in columns. Andruil waved at Inara’s wrists again, and one was now free. The magical thread that kept her anchored to the goddess yet remained, but now elongated as Andruil crossed the room in strides to sit on the decadent, long-benched throne at the center of the room.

“The slave will find my shield. I must sleep to regain strength, but when I wake I expect to find it polished and at the ready.” With that, Andruil closed her eyes, seemingly falling instantly asleep.

Inara lingered, glad she did not feel hunger in the fade, but feeling a slight worry for what prolonged exposure might do to her once she returned. If she returned.

Andruil instructed her to find her shield, but she had no idea where to start. Would it be inside the palace? After searching the rooms, mostly barren, she decided it was unlikely to be hidden within the palace itself. She stepped into the odd green glow of the fade worriedly, her eyes casting back and forth.

She knew her magic would be amplified while physically within the fade, but so too would any demons she happened across. She would have to be vigilant. Without destination, she set off toward a cluster of mirrors she could see not too far from Andruil’s palace.

At her side, she noticed a shape begin to appear and she readied herself. She would take no bargains in a land weighted in demons and goddesses’ favor. But as the shape continued forming—achingly slowly—she realized she recognized the floppy hat. Compassion. _Cole_.

She had never been so happy to see someone who looked dead. When he fully manifested in the fade, she threw her arms around him.

“How did you escape? Are you safe here? Is Fen’Harel alright?” the questions came out of her in a torrent, but Cole merely nodded.

“He said I could come back if I wanted to. Light as a wisp to slip through, back home. I heard him, he told me to leave. He said rending the veil might rip me apart as well,” he paused. “I don’t think that would feel good.”

Inara laughed, her eyes tearing up at the situation and Cole’s unwitting humor—glad to have a friend with her.

“No, Cole, I think not. But is he okay? Fen’Harel?”

“I think so. It is strange, because he is both here and there and _here_ ,” he grabbed her hand, pointing to the mark on her palm. It had calmed some, but still ached. She pulled it away, hoping to continue pretending her hand had not consumed some kind of strange Creator magic. Cole knew what she was doing, of course he did, but he allowed her.

“I’m sorry, Cole. But I have to ask, how do you know you’re you?” Inara asked.

“You think… I’m a demon. That I’ll promise you Halamshiral and a frilly cake or Andruil’s shield, glowing like beacon embers ready to be lit. Why do need to find it?”

“A demon would know what I’m thinking right now.”

“ _His voice felt like it was tattooed on your bones—a vallaslin to mark you as his. But it wasn’t a dream. You thought he was a hahren, a Keeper to keep you safe. You hadn’t expected it to be one of_ those _dreams_.”

Inara cleared her throat, looking away.

“I never told you that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“You were right before, though. I have to find Andruil’s shield. Because otherwise she’ll probably skin me or do some other horrible thing I didn’t know they did in Arlathan, okay? I don’t remember any stories about it. Do you have any idea where it might be?”

Cole nodded, his hair flipping up and down under the hat. She realized he must have coporealized in the fade in that shape to calm her. Or perhaps he just really liked his hat.

“It’s made out of stars,” he whispered, and continued ahead. She fell in step after him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone is curious what the Dread Wolf's vallaslin look like in my mind—I imagine the heraldry from the slab in front of Fen'Harel's statue in the Arbor Wilds spaced for a face. Of course it's very likely lore will prove me wrong (also I don't really think Fen'Harel has vallaslin in any modern sense given the whole slave rebellion theory I completely buy into BUT for the purposes of this story!) 
> 
> http://s122.photobucket.com/user/Starseeker13/media/fen_harel_symbol.jpg.html


	7. The Shield

Cole was right. The shield did look like it was made out of stars, a shimmering iridescence that hurt her eyes like she’d stared at the sun too long. At first she thought it was metal, but it was warm when she touched it. Bone. Bone so warm it felt like the animal it came from still lived through it. The warmth radiated through her arm even after she pulled her hand away.

“Any ideas, Cole?” she went around to the other side of the mirror—eluvian, Cole told her (a wisp told him, she wondered who told the wisp)— but the shield, lodged in the middle of the fractured reflection, did not go through to the other side. Half in, half… somewhere.

She tried not to think about what the animal (or demon or thing) was in its former life, before it became Andruil’s shield. She also tried not to think of the force it would take to throw a shield so hard it wedged half in, half out of an eluvian. “No. It wants to be whole, but it doesn’t remember how.”

Inara tugged on the shield. It didn’t budge. Hands on her hips, she considered the challenge aloud.

“I can’t pull it out and,” she tried, “I can’t push it through, either.”

She considered the wavery glass of the eluvian and knocked. The knock produced a hollow sound, much too hollow for a mirror inset in stone. It was not something she expected to work, but she let out a frustrated sigh when it didn’t anyhow.

She rested her aching palm against the cool glass as she considered, her head down. Maybe she could pry it out? Or… something.

“The eluvian remembers!” Cole said, in mixed glee and awe. She looked up, surprised, her hand jerking back, and the glow that had begun to creep into the mirror like dawn over the horizon leeched back out. She didn’t see anything wrong with her hand on inspection, other, of course, than the fuzzy patterns left by Fen’Harel’s orb. They glowed too, but the glow was fading there too.

Unwilling to lose her advantage, Inara pressed her palm to the mirror and willed it to work, pretending she could feel the string of power in her hand the way she did with her magic. And then she did. The mana pool was like falling into an ocean in comparison to her usual puddle. She could only imagine how much more was stored within the orb.

The mirror began to glow, stutteringly, and much more faintly than the one in Fen’Harel’s chambers, but it did. And, so slowly, the shield inched out of the mirror as cracks repaired themselves and she—the mark—forced the eluvian to repair itself.

The pace increased quickly once she was going, and soon the shield landed with a thud, bouncing along the owl carved into it on the steps of the eluvian. Cole grabbed it and brushed it off with the sleeve of his dirty tunic (she didn’t have the heart to tell him it probably wouldn’t help). The light had spread to the entire mirror, and this time when she pulled her hand away, the eluvian remained lit.

Cole handed her the shield. At his motion she had braced for quite the weight, but the shield was light. It was no heavier than wood. Perhaps the animal it was from was some kind of bird?

“I don’t want to go. You don’t want me to go: shielding, my hat like an aravel protecting you from winds. She’ll sense me if I stay,” Cole said as soon as his hands were free of the shield. “I like my hat, too.”

Even though it felt like her gut dropped through my toes, she reached under the big, floppy, ridiculous hat to kiss him on the cheek.

“Thank you, Cole.”

He parted his lips to bare his teeth in some approximation of a smile, then faded away into dark smoke that lingered close to the ground. Inara knew the way back—she’d always had a fine sense of direction, toned by cruel children’s games in the wilderness and later by her own explorations. The odd green light of the fade never changed, so she wasn’t sure how long she’d been away. She hoped not long enough to incur Andruil’s rant.

As she approached she noted, for the first time, the differences between Andruil’s palace and Fen’Harel’s. Where his was made of glowing, arching spirals of crystal and filigree, hers looked like it had once been but was no longer. The light inside the crystals, usually much like the luminescence of lyrium, had gone dark. Instead of not emitting that light, however, it was the vacancy of light. The Void. Inara tried to shake the stories she’d heard of Andruil and the Void.

Once inside it didn’t take long to find a rag amongst the decaying finery of the palace. She wondered what it had looked like at the height of Elvhenan. She had always assumed—it sounded ridiculous now—that the work in Elvhenan was largely done by magic or for pleasure. Social status wasn’t something she had considered before. Now she knew. She wondered what part of the decay was due to a lack of upkeep by slaves and what was due to the loss of magic or locking the gods away.

She polished the shield, rubbing into it with all her weight like the warriors in her clan had. She set it next to Andruil’s throne, keeping her eyes low, and moved away silently to find a sleeping mat. She found one in an alcove and settled in, trying to ignore the uneven floor under her. She could almost hear Andruil’s voice in her ear: _how quickly she’d been trained to the role of obedient slave._

* * *

 

She woke to Andruil looming over her, shield inches above her face.

“Do you think your time with the Dread Wolf made you clever, _slave_? You _reek_ of spirit. Who helped you?”

Inara’s eyes opened fully sleep pushed out of her by adrenaline. She drug the edge of her shield, sharpened and mirror bright, along Inara’s cheekbone.

“Who helped you?” Inara didn’t answer, stifling a yelp from the cut to her face. Instead, she shook her head mutely, blood droplets hitting the floor near Andruil’s foot. She looked down in disgust.

“Well, what a good little slave you are, then. Surely with your _aptitude_ , retrieving my spear from the Forgotten lands will be no heavy task?”

She did not wait for an answer to emerge from Inara’s heavy breathing, pulling her weight and the shield off her. Inara could feel her cheek stinging and blood seeping from the wound there.

“If you do not return it to me, I will find it myself. If I have to do that, consider it buried in your stomach.” She turned and began to stalk away, but added, as an afterthought, “do not ask for help and tell no one where you are going.”

Inara touched her fingertips to the cut and willed it healed, but her ordinary magic, the magic not connected to her marked palm, refused to budge. The bruising, she knew, would impair her eyesight before long. Gathering herself and tidying the bed, she decided to experiment.

Worst case, it would kill her. Best case? Same. She’d noticed how Fen’Harel’s magic focused on the manipulation of the Fade, so magical theory would seem to conclude that she could bend the laws of the Fade to heal the damage to her cheek. Theoretically. Then again, most magical theory was based out of Tevinter’s mages and even they hadn’t been able to plumb all of the secrets of Elvhenan.

Would Andruil be angry about it later? Almost definitely, but her anger seemed preferable to potentially facing the Forgotten ones half blind. But she could always cut herself again later and hope the new wound passed for the old. Settled and aware she was wasting time, she pressed the lighted palm to her cheek and closed her eyes.

She felt the magic stir as a thread, then a tendril, pulling the world around her wound into the past. She could feel her skin knitting back together with a little thrill. Maybe she would stay away from world altering magic in the future, but survival mattered more in the moment.

When she quietly left the palace Andruil was back on her throne.


	8. The Spear

Inara never considered herself religious. She was the unnecessary third to a clan and felt it unlikely she would actually end up inhabiting the role of Keeper. _Keeper_ , like there was any golden age worth keeping hold of? One that wasn’t built on the bones of elven slaves, that is. The Creators had been well and good when they were distant and ambivalent, thought of as cruel in their inattention. How little they knew.

And how much they’d gotten wrong.

The Dalish were sipping at dregs of the wine that was elvhenan, unaware it was laced with blood. It had always been difficult for her to imagine and believe in distant benevolent gods guiding the People when the People had seen nothing but horror, despair and hunger since the Exalted March on the Dales. She’d always thought it apt that the Dalish thought the only god they had left was the betrayer, the trickster. Looking at the fate of the Dales, who would disagree?

In her imaginings, Andruil hadn’t had a spear. Inara had never seen one used in person—they were too clunky for the clan’s purposes—but the stories she’d read in _the Tale of the Champion_ (Cole had been kind enough to acquire her a copy, she didn’t ask where he’d gotten it) of the Qunari and Tal-Vashoth _ashaad_ did not make her eager to see Andruil’s put to use.

She rubbed her forehead, sitting down on a rock that—for the moment at least—seemed to be adhering to normal rules of nature. A spear, lost somewhere in the fade. What worried her more even than finding the actual spear was what would come after. Surely even the goddess of hunting had a finite supply of weapons lost in the fade. Would one of them soon be found in _her_? She rubbed the mark on her hand, trying to ignore the stabbing pain that seemed to be pushing out from it—like an infected wound.

She tried not to think about the mark or Andruil’s spear, but the prickle of unease had lodged deep in her throat and in the pit of her stomach. Rising, she picked a direction. Without a sun to set her course—only the Black City of Andrastian legend, which hovered eerily at the same distance seemingly no matter where she went—she picked one at random, between two great arches that should not have been upright, given that the bottom halves were missing.

She tried to recall what Fen’Harel had spent his harassed, but always willing, hours teaching her. The Fade was supposed to be shaped by intent and focus, a place where things that might be days apart in the physical world could be steps away from each other.

She didn’t imagine her will was quite so powerful as a god’s, despite Fen’Harel’s equally amused and irritated admiration of it. Though her stubbornness was not the _only_ thing he seemed to admire. She shook her head.

 _Focus_.

When she did, the mark on her hand seemed to spark, the green of the fade striking out as dwarven accounts said lava did. She didn’t dare close her eyes, but the mark called for use. It spluttered and flared, as if indignant she would not harness its undeniable power, and, for the first time, she considered it. It was the power of a god, true, but if she was just borrowing it… perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad.

It was all she had left of Fen’Harel—perhaps all _anyone_ had left—so she sincerely hoped it wasn’t killing her. It would be slow, in the fade. She wondered if dying while physically in the fade would turn her into a spirit… or something worse. When she’d healed herself the power had given her tingles like blood flowing back into a limb and her tongue felt numb. The power could be useful, but it was also dangerous. Just like everything else in the fade.

When she came around the other side, a spirit appeared next to her. Much more suddenly than Cole did, but she had no clue what that meant other than to be wary. It materialized in the form of an elven woman, but Inara wasn’t sure whether that was a preference or a choice made specifically to comfort her. Demon? Fen’Harel would chastise her for the thought, but she shut out all thoughts of him just in case. There was no sense in twisting a harmless spirit with her piteous longing for something she could never have.

“Quiet your heart, da’len. You are in no danger from me,” the spirit turned. It did not fully embody a physical shape like Cole—Compassion—did. Its being was twisted up in the fade, body the sooty color of the earth and eyes the disconcerting green of both the fade and Inara’s mark. Its voice was soothing, but Inara was not totally comforted.

“What do you embody?” Inara asked.

“Wisdom. I often counsel Fen’Harel when you are not visiting in dreams… but he has been gone for some time,” Wisdom’s eyes flashed beneath the same colored smoke as it brought its unearthly eyes to bear. “And yet you here, and you are not dreaming.”

“I- I was brought here,” Inara stuttered out. There was a mix of unease and relief in her words—unsure but glad to be speaking through it. “by… she says she’s the goddess Andruil, and I think I believe her. She brought me through an eluvian after Fen’Harel…” she trailed off, uncertain of what Fen’Harel _had_ done.

“He sundered the Veil,” Wisdom said, a quiet note of awe in its unfamiliarly accented voice. “Restored the path of eluvians.” The spirit quickly put the pieces together. “I followed his power here—you touched the orb?”

Inara held out her hand palm up, the splinter-like mark spluttering as it always did. The spirit laid a hand on hers and Inara gasped at the cold touch and the numbing relief it brought to the mark. On that recommendation alone Inara would have trusted the spirit.

“I will show you where Andruil’s spear is and then I will leave you. Fen’Harel is not dead, and I will find him.” At Inara’s hesitation, the spirit continued. “He _is not_ dead. Surely you must feel that?” Inara nodded, reassured on that front, at least.

“You will ask nothing of me?” she asked the spirit.

“Nothing. In fact, I am heading to Andruil’s spear whether you come or not, so you may follow me without my company if you choose, da’len.”

The spirit seemed confident and sure, so Inara shook her head and they started out. Before long, Inara noticed the fade had changed. The air was acrid and ashy, but stale as if it were indoors. The ground beneath her feet was blackened, cracked—blistered and marked by what appeared to be a war.

“We must be cautious here. We are near where the forbidden ones used to gather,” Wisdom said, taking the lead. When they crested the next hill, they were upon it. Andruil’s spear, untouched by the darkness around it, was shoved through a mostly disintegrated corpse into the earth below. Inara moved to wrenched it out, planting both feet on the ground, when Wisdom stopped her.

“No! Something is… wrong about this place. Corrupted,” Wisdom nodded to herself before casting her gaze around them. “I will… cleanse the spear’s essence.”

The spirit did so, and Inara wrenched it out of the ground as she’d planned. Wisdom shuddered away from it and Inara’s mark spluttered and hissed.

“It is vile,” Wisdom said, turning away. “Do not cut yourself with it.” It surveyed the horizon. “Here is where I leave you. You will find your way back to Andruil’s palace very quickly if you focus.”

Wisdom nodded and began to leave on foot, heading back in the direction of lighter sky, but she turned at the last moment.

“Be careful, Inara. Andruil is as savage as she is cunning.”


	9. Tel'abelas

This time Andruil was awake, pacing the length of the throne room. Power radiated off of her and seemed to hum from the dark crystals around the room. Her clothing shined with it, and power came off the hem of her cape in waves like heat off stone.

She did not turn, but said, “you return.” She held her hand out at her side for the spear and Inara moved to place it gently in it, but Andruil grasped her wrist where she held the spear, pointing the tip down at her throat. Her face was now inches from Inara’s, nostrils flared in anger.

“Who _helped_ you?” she spat. “What spirit?”

She pressed the speartip closer, until Inara could feel its tip against her neck. Had the edge been tended to in the last thousand years or so it surely would have pierced her. As it were, however, death by blunt spear wasn’t an appealing option either.

Andruil pulled the spear away, but before Inara could exhale in relief Andruil cracked her across the face, a ring cutting her cheekbone. She fell to the ground, her head and face ringing with pain, hot tears welling in her eyes.

Her rage bubbled, but she kept a careful lid on it. She was powerless against Andruil. She was not so sure that her face reflected that inner decision, based on the venomous hatred Andruil seemed to hold for her.

“Shemlen scum,” she hissed, flicking her hand to rid her ring of Inara’s blood. It splattered on the floor next to her. She pulled power into her hand, such an immense amount that it seemed to bend the air around them, and reached down to Inara’s collar with her other, lifting her by it.

Andruil was statuesque—much taller than Inara—so the tips of Inara’s worn shoes barely touched the stone floor. Andruil whispered something in elven, something arcane, clearly, but not words Inara understood, and pressed her glowing, pulsating hand to Inara’s head.

“ _Answer me_ ,” Andruil said, her voice ringing with compulsion. Inara struggled against it, eyes widening, but her depleted power was no match for the goddess.

“Wisdom,” Inara coughed out, when the pounding, pressing pressure on her brain was too much to bear. Andruil nodded curtly, dropping her in a heap on the cold stone.

She strode away, to the columns of the throne room. Inara watched from her slumped position on the floor, one arm under her head where she’d fallen. She had no options. Casting at Andruil would be tantamount to suicide and from the pounding, wet pain on her head and at her sliced cheek she didn’t think she would be moving any time soon. One by one the summoning stones inset in the columns flickered to life—power long forgotten stirred by Andruil’s magic.

“ _Wisdom,_ ” Andruil said, in a commanding voice. The stones lit and emitted a beam of light toward the center of the throne room, meeting at the center and illuminating a summoning circle inlaid in the floor. A string of elven followed her first word, all incomprehensible to Inara.

A flash of light burned Inara’s eyes, forcing her to close them, and when she could open them again the summoning circle had calmed. The mark on her hand crackled as if aflame, spitting energy. Inara clutched it, trying not to draw attention to herself. Wisdom’s preferred form, serene and quietly unyielding in the face of Andruil’s rage, sat in the middle of the circle.

And not just Wisdom. Just outside the summoning circle stood Fen’Harel, the casual grip he held on his simple, wooden staff belying the tension in the room. Despite the magnitude of the conflict about to erupt in front of her Inara couldn’t help but to take him in. Her fingers itched to bury themselves in the dark pelt thrown over his shoulder and run down the finely woven material under his armored cloak. She wanted to feel him and assure herself he was real and safe. She… her eyes caught Wisdom’s movement in the midst of the silent battle of wills between Fen’Harel and Andruil.

The spirit’s fingers were crafting subtle shapes Inara followed with surprise. The Clan’s silent language, used for hunting and disability alike, sprung from Wisdom’s fingertips as easily as if she’d learned it at the breast as the children of Clan Lavellan had.

 _Prey_. She signed, signifying Inara. _Guard_.

The mark on Inara’s palm fizzled again, this time loud enough to stir Andruil to action. Her spear scraped as she drew it, her eyes set on Fen’Harel, who still held his staff with false apathy. Inara understood Wisdom’s mark in the same moment Andruil snarled and lunged—not toward Fen’Harel, but toward Inara. Inara, however, had shielded herself with the strongest barrier she could make—a mere quickling in terms of Fen’Harel’s and Andruil’s power, but enough to hold her back.

But it was stronger than shecould have made herself. One of her own barriers would have shattered at the impact of Inara’s spear—sputtered out, useless. Neither Wisdom nor Fen’Harel met her eyes, but either or both must have been bolstering her magic with their own for Andruil’s spear glanced off the shining globe around Inara in a shower of useless, cold sparks.

Andruil called the spear back to her hand and turned in one motion on Fen’Harel. He had yet to visibly cast, his lips pulled into a disinterested frown as one might act toward a spoiled child, but his magic thrummed through the stone floor and through Inara’s palms where they pressed against it. The pulsing of her mark met its rhythm and seemed to be feeding into it while not wasting any of her own energy. She pulled it from the ground and stared at it, but the buzzing within continued even after she broke contact. It felt like the charged pieces of metal her Keeper made her practice magic on—magnetic.

And then the poles, and Inara’s stomach, flipped. Andruil shrieked as the stone floor started creeping up her feet and calves. She swept her spear in a circle to cut off the invasion and leapt away, but her leap was put off balance by another attack from Fen’Harel, who did not look even remotely exhausted by the enormous display of power. Inara’s teeth still felt funny from it.

Ice shot from Fen’Harel’s staff and Ianra could feel the small hairs inside her nose freeze as the room’s temperature plummeted. Her barrier seemed to insulate her from the worst of the cold, but Andruil found her own way to combat it. Inara had never seen Andruil use her magic before, but now she drew sprays of sticky fire out of her spear like a staff.  Where the fire landed it evaporated the ice on contact and despite the spots in her vision Inara couldn’t make herself look away.

Andruil was winning, that much was clear. Where Fen’Harel’s gritted his teeth and dug in his heels Andruil laughed, wild and free. The difference in their power had never been more apparent. Andruil… she was a _goddess_. But Fen’Harel was… diminished somehow. His powers were still far superior to mortal grasps, but Andruil was no mortal. Even as she thought it Inara could feel the barrier around her falling in blasts of icy cold and heat like standing next to a wildfire in equal turns. She could feel the tendrils of Andruil’s magic stretching out to Fen’Harel—straining to consume him.

The fight would not last long if the battle of wills continued.

He needed a _trick_.

Her barrier fell with one last burst as Fen’Harel’s excess power expired. His energies and attention were now focused solely on the huntress in front of him. Her attentions, however, were more easily captured. Inara feinted right, hoping to catch her peripheral vision, and Andruil’s eyes turned toward her for a brief second. In the next, the goddess flung her shield toward Inara, cutting edge spinning toward her throat.

In the Focus, time seemed to stop. Inara stuck her hand out, reacting immediately in self-defense, and light burst from her marked palm, sucking the air out of her lungs with it. Power exploded from it, creating a glowing ball of energy that enveloped the shield. When the mark returned to equilibrium with a _pop_ the shield had disappeared with the large fracture her gesture had created. And so had the summoning stones.

They imploded on themselves as if crushed by a giant’s hand—small parts scattered around the flickering summoning circle as it petered out. They skittered to a stop at Inara’s feet, but Andruil caught one chunk in her hand.

Her fight with Fen’Harel was at a momentary pause while she surveyed the damage to her strategy. She made to round on Inara, crushing the broken bit of summoning stone in her fist, when she was tackled to the ground by a large black wolf. _Fen’Harel_.

Inara rushed to Wisdom’s side, hoping the spirit was not yet corrupted by Andruil’s intent. It was too late. The spirit was fading.

The Dread Wolf howled. He knew, too, that this was Wisdom’s last goodbye. His jaws were around Andruil’s shoulder when they rolled through one of the small Fade tears that had opened during their fight. It closed behind them—this time a product of Fen’Harel’s magic.

“Ir abelas,” Inara said, grabbing Wisdom’s hands and tearing her eyes away from where the two gods disappeared.

“Tel’abelas, da’len. Halam’shivanas,” she said, her hand to Inara’s cheek.

“Lasa ghilan.”

“Mala suledin nadas. Ma melava halani—Fen’Harel halani.” Inara felt a tear slip down her cheek and onto Wisdom’s fingertips, but didn’t move to wipe it away. Wisdom began to fade faster, scraps of her being floating away as if on an unfelt breeze.

"Ma serannas, falon. Dareth shiral.”

She was gone—nothing but dust in her wake. Tears streamed from Inara’s eyes, but when she looked up she saw Fen’Harel leaning heavily against a column. Andruil’s spear was lodged through his shoulder, dark blood streaming from it and into his finery. She scrambled to get up, remembering Wisdom’s words. _Help him_.

He staggered into her arms, his fingers splayed against the spear jutting from his wound. She helped him lay down on the cold stone floor, his head in her lap. It was too soon. _Too soon_. She couldn’t give him up now, not when they’d only just begun.

She sobbed into his shoulder, hair falling over his chest and fingers clutched in the fabric of his shirt.

“You can’t do this to me,” she whispered against his chest.

“Inara. You are… so beautiful,” he brushed his fingertips through her hair, tucking fine strands behind her ear. He grabbed her hand next, pulling her fingertips to his lips and kissing each before moving on to her palm. When he was finished he used the hand still tucked behind her ear to pull her close to him.

They kissed because they were a candle going out. They kissed like a storm rolling down the mountains into the unsuspecting valleys below. He invaded her senses and her mana and replaced them with fire. When he finally pulled away with a groan in equal parts pain and pleasure he kept her face close to his.

“Ar lath ma, vhenan.”

She choked, burying her head in the crook of his unhurt shoulder. “Ma sa’lath.”

“I will see you again, ma’arlath. I must enter uthenera to recover, but I will come back for you. In a thousand worlds and millenniums I would always find you.”

He focused for a moment and Inara felt warmth envelop her. The burns and frostbite she’d received from the gods’ battle healed, the cuts and scrapes from her toils with Andruil as well. With the last vestiges of his power he healed her, and, with that done, he closed his eyes.

* * *

 

Inara gasped as cold air hit her lungs. The air was heavier here—damp. The ground felt solid beneath her legs, small grasses tickling her toes and wrists. It smelled of a sweet fragrance and incense and it was so bright. Light reflected off the snow and Inara squinted against it. Where she sat it was still spring, but the area around her had moved on without her.

Fen’Harel’s shrine shone in wintertime.

In her surprise she’d put her hand to her heart and was now surprised again to find herself wearing the wolf pendant she’d always seen hanging around Fen’Harel’s neck. She clasped it in her palm and took a weary step into the calve-deep snow.

She would find the closest city and, from there, her heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ir abelas - I'm sorry  
> Tel'abelas, da'len. Halam'shivanas. - I'm not sorry, child. The sweet sacrifice of duty.  
> Lasa ghilan - Give guidance, help me.  
> Mala suledin nadas. Ma melava halani—Fen'Harel halani. - Now you must endure. You helped me—help Fen'Harel.  
> Ma serannas, falon. Dareth shiral. - Thank you, friend. Farewell/safe journey.  
> Ar lath ma, vhenan. - I love you, (my) heart.  
> Ma sa'lath - my one love  
> Ma'arlath - my love  
> uthenera - eternal sleep; used in this case for healing purposes
> 
> So, that's it! Hope you enjoyed.


End file.
